


I Want to Follow You Into the Darkness

by nanero11



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Delusions, Dreams and Nightmares, Geraskier Fun Day (The Witcher), Hallucinations, Injury, M/M, Mild Gore, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, geralt needs therapy, graphic description of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanero11/pseuds/nanero11
Summary: Geralt is living in a nightmare, constantly plagued by Jaskier after the bard’s untimely death.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 96
Collections: Geraskier Fun Day





	I Want to Follow You Into the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Geraskier Fun Day, prompt:nightmare! Go check them out on tumblr @geraskierfunday. Or check me out @nanero11  
> Please carefully read the tags and don't read if you think something will trigger you. Also I believe I tagged everything, but please let me know if I missed something.

Geralt dropped heavily onto his hands and knees in front of the bard, dragging himself through the mud until he could grab Jaskier’s face between his palms, smearing blood and guts and dirt all across the bard’s cheeks.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, staring down intently at the bard’s face, trying to ignore the red tinged drool that frothed at the corners of Jaskier’s lips and focus instead on those wide blue eyes that were frantically searching the Witcher’s face. Jaskier opened his mouth and Geralt strained to hear what the bard was saying, but no words came out, only a sharp intake of air that ended with a particularly disturbing gurgling sound.

Cradling the bard’s head in one arm, Geralt hastily ran his hand down Jaskier’s chest, ripping clothes away as he went, in a desperate attempt to find the injury. His blood ran cold when his fingers slipped down off the edge Jaskier’s ribs, straight through a wide break in his skin, and directly into the sticky, warm puddle of the bard’s insides. Jaskier tensed under him, letting out a bone-rattling cry, before falling into a coughing fit full of wet gasps, his chest heaving up and down, struggling to pull in air.

“Breathe!” Geralt commanded, roughly sitting Jaskier up and leaning him against his chest, while adamantly making a point _not_ to look at the gaping hole in the bard’s torso. Jaskier’s head flopped ungracefully onto Geralt’s shoulder and the Witcher grimaced as his face and neck became the primary target that red droplets splattered upon as they flew forcefully from Jaskier’s mouth, expelled with each rattling cough.

“I’m….alright..I—” _cough, gasp, choke, gurgle_ “—I'm...fine……right?.........G-geralt?” Jaskier was beginning to wilt, sagging in Geralt’s arms, even as the Witcher tried hopelessly to will some life back into him.

“You’re fine. Fuck, Jaskier, _look at me._ ” Geralt brushed Jaskier’s slick hair back off his forehead and gently tilted the bard’s chin up. The coughs were starting to dwindle in number, each one becoming less and less violent. Jaskier’s futile efforts at breathing had been rapid and purposeful what seemed like just seconds ago but were now few and far between.

“Jask, please,” Geralt pleaded, panicking as he tried and failed to meet the bard’s drooping eyes. His mind was screaming at him to do something, _anything_ , to save Jaskier, but another softer, more reasonable voice in his head told him there was nothing he could do, and he knew it was true. He surged down and slammed his mouth against Jaskier’s, ignoring the bitter taste of blood coating the bard’s lips, pouring all the love he had in him into the kiss.

When he pulled back, he wildly searched again for Jaskier’s eyes, only to realize that they were completely shut. Jaskier had the same dopey grin plastered on his face that he’d usually flash sleepily at Geralt as they lay together during peaceful moments before falling asleep. “I’m…so…..tired……Geralt.”

“You’re going to be ok.” His voice barely a whisper, Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the bard’s bloodied, weary face any longer, and pressed his forehead firmly to Jaskier’s. He tried his hardest to focus on the weakened beating of Jaskier’s heart, but found it was getting to the point where even his enhanced hearing couldn’t pick up on it.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening.

_Please don’t go._

Geralt’s eyes snapped open, a cry caught in his throat and a cold sweat coating his skin. With a shiver, he sat up, dropping his head into his hands, and wiped away the tears running down his face.

“ _Fuck_.” He forced himself to take deep breaths, trying to ground himself in the present, listening to the sounds of Roach shuffling over to his bedroll and her soft snorts. She nosed at his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him and slowly but surely, he felt himself beginning to calm down.

It had been years now, but perhaps the passage of time didn’t really matter when it came to something like this. And he could rarely sleep anymore these days, but whenever he did, the same dream tormented him. At least, he wished he could say it was only a dream.

Having to see Jaskier dying over and over again while he was helpless to save him wasn’t even the worst of the endless torture he’d endured since the bard’s death, because in every waking moment, no matter how hard he tried to keep his head clear of all thoughts, his mind would _never_ let him forget his bard.

Sometimes he’d hear Jaskier’s voice and, for just a brief second, would turn with a reply on the tip of his tongue, expecting the bard to really be there. Other times he’d swear he saw a flash of Jaskier in the corner of his vision, but nevertheless, no matter how fast he whipped his head towards the visage and called out, no one was actually there. And every so often, Geralt would catch a whiff of the bard’s scent, his lavender and chamomile perfumes, but still, no Jaskier. So, Geralt had accepted being plagued by Jaskier as his personal punishment for not being good enough. For not being able to save him.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t incredibly difficult. Especially in times like right now. He’d finally laid back down and closed his eyes because he was _so_ tired, despite knowing that he probably wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. Even so, he was hopeful he might be able to rest without another nightmare as he felt himself on the cusp of unconsciousness, that was, until he felt fingers running through his hair and a sweet voice singing him a lullaby. And he hated that he let himself enjoy it for a moment, thinking back on a time when those fingers were real, because he’s not worthy of happiness or comfort.

The image of Jaskier’s lifeless body flashed in his mind and he sucked in a breath, abruptly sitting up, before he could be pulled too deeply into the delusion of Jaskier coaxing him to sleep. Leaning over to dig through his bag with shaky hands, he let out a sigh of relief when he finally found what he was searching for.

Taking the small knife out of his pack, he ripped the sheath off and yanked his shirt up, pressing the cool metal against the skin of his hip. For a fleeting second, he stared at the tip of the knife resting upon his skin, a slightly anxious feeling humming underneath his skin before it turned to a sensation of euphoria as he deliberately pushed the blade down. He relished in the sharp pain and the warm dripping of blood as he let himself become consumed with carving lines across his skin. Because this drowned out all the thoughts. Because this freed him from those dreams and delusions. Because _this_ was what he deserved.

…

Geralt collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the prolonged attack, and aching from the numerous injuries he had sustained. He knew he had taken on more monsters than he could handle all at once, but he found himself caring less and less whether or not he would be the one coming out of a fight alive.

With a groan, Geralt pushed himself up to his feet and leaned against a tree, holding a particularly nasty gash on his side. He whistled for Roach and she obediently strode over to him from where she had been hidden away in the trees. She nickered at him as he reached out to stroke her neck.

“Hey, Roach.” She sniffed about at his bloody side and then eyed him with a snort. “I know, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Geralt limped around Roach to her side so he could get to the saddlebag. Hissing as he lifted his hand off his wound, he undid the straps and buckles on the bag and opened it, surveying his various potions and elixirs. _Shit_. He’d been getting too careless, not replacing any of the vials he had emptied, and now he was out of anything he could’ve used on this injury.

He grabbed a roll of bandages and tried to patch himself up, before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He needed to get an elixir. With a sigh and a grunt, he mounted Roach turning them back towards the town he had just left, resigning himself to the long painful ride back.

Eventually he found himself in the town and made his way towards where he knew the town’s mage was, ignoring the various judging and fearful looks that were cast upon him and pretending not to see the momentary flashes of Jaskier throughout the crowds of people.

He rushed into the mage’s shop, mostly because he was tired of all the townspeople’s prying eyes, and not really because he was concerned with curing his injury. He dropped a few coins onto the table in front of the mage, grunting out his need for a healing elixir. She eyed him curiously, dug through some of her things, and then handed him a vial.

Once he had the elixir in his hand he tugged his shirt up and poured it over the wound, feeling satisfied when he saw it beginning to take effect, before, all at once, sticky, warm shame flooded his gut as he noticed the mage staring directly at the wounds that were a result of his self-inflicted punishment from a few days ago.

“Tell me, Witcher. Isn’t it a bit reckless to go about without elixir when you’re going to be getting injuries like that?”

He yanked his shirt down, not that it did much to cover his exposed skin anyways as most of the fabric was torn to shreds. He looked up at her with a huff, a disgruntled response on the tip of his tongue, but froze at the sight in front of him because, of course, there Jaskier was, right behind her.

She cast a quick glance behind her, following his gaze. Maybe…maybe this was his chance. Sure, he knew the everyday occurrences of Jaskier invading his vision, or any of his other senses, was a necessary reminder, although a grim one, of his failure, but if he could get something to take it away just every now and then. Something that would give him just a second of peace.

“Do you…” he trailed off, clearly this couldn’t be a good idea. What had he been thinking?

“Do I what?”

He clenched his fists and resolved himself to asking the question. “Do you have something for hallucinations?”

The mage turned to rifle through a few items of her stock, “I have several things that can cause them.”

“I meant to take them away.” He held his breath as she fixed him with a piercing stare. Well, he was in too deep now, he might as well push his luck. “Or something for nightmares?”

She crossed her arms, studying him with a bemused expression upon her face, and he felt as if his whole existence was being uncomfortably scrutinized by her. “What afflicts you, Witcher?”

He turned to leave, suddenly hyper aware of everything around him, realizing how bad of an idea it had been to ask for help. He halted in his steps towards the door though, as she pointed at his neck. His feet seeming to freeze in place, inhibiting his escape from the terrible, horrible situation he had created simply because he had wanted to find a way to elude some of his never-ending suffering. Hurriedly looked down, he found that the chain holding Jaskier’s ring had slipped over the collar of his shirt at some point.

“Is that his?”

“What’s it to you?” Geralt snarled, quickly sliding the ring back into his shirt, nausea crawling about under his skin as he came to the conclusion that she had been in his head, reading his mind, infiltrating his most private thoughts.

He stormed out of the store, slamming the door shut behind him, and swiftly mounted Roach, letting out a sigh of relief only after he had reached the edge of the small, miserable town and reentered the forest. Even so, anxiety and despair continued to hit him in waves until he felt like he was drowning, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to stop himself from doing what he had been holding back from for so long.

He stumbled off Roach and crumpled to his knees, grasping for one of his swords with shaky hands. Silver for a monster like him. A fitting end.

He tore the rest of his wrecked armor out of the way with one hand, hot tears dripping down his face, and brought the tip of the blade up to the soft flesh of his abdomen. Taking one last deep breath, he got ready to shove the sword into himself.

_Geralt_.

No. No! Not right now. He couldn’t take this right now.

Hands, _those_ hands, _his_ hands. They rested gently on Geralt’s shoulders before trailing down his arms. With a shudder, Geralt dropped the sword. Falling forward onto his forearms, he plunged his face into his palms. Why now? Why couldn’t he just have a moment to himself? Why couldn’t he just die in peace?

Hands. Hands. On his back, on his face, in his hair. If he closed his eyes, it all seemed so real. Jaskier was there in front of him, concern and confusion, playing across his face, asking Geralt _why, why would he do this?_

“Because I can’t go on without you, Jaskier!”

His shout carried throughout the trees and then echoed back at him. He roughly swallowed, blinking forcefully in an attempt to get back to reality, trying to get the image of his bard out of his head, trying to push away those hands. This was fake. This wasn’t real. It was all just another hallucination, but he…he just… _fuck_ , he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go on without Jaskier anymore, but…he just couldn’t—no, he was too weak, too much of a coward, to end himself like he should.

He closed his eyes again, letting those hands coax him into lying down. Letting those cold fingers drag across his face. Letting himself believe Jaskier was with him, trying not to think about how tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that, he would just have to keep going forward, utterly alone, and yet never truly by himself.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if some of the grammar was wack, i wrote the majority of this fic at 3 in the morning lol. pls leave a kudo or a comment if you enjoyed, i would greatly appreciate it :)


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